You Am I
by reinadefuego
Summary: Most women don't go to hotels just to find out their life is a lie, but having a gun pointed at you by someone who's your spitting image really does change things. Magdalene Shaw & Victoria. Ficlet.


**A/N: **written for Trope Bingo Round 11: Secret Twin/Doppelganger.

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Magdalene wasn't sure what to expect when she walked into a hotel and found herself being addressed as Victoria, nor when someone commented about her accent changing. Part of growing up had involved learning how to lie through her teeth, and thank God they'd bought her having a cold or things might've gotten hairy.

She was booked into the penthouse suite apparently. By all accounts, the hotel was a pretty glam place once she got upstairs with her room card. Miss Victoria Winslow had checked in and told them she'd pick up her spare card once she returned from work. There was no harm in enjoying herself on someone else's pound, right?

Three suitcases had been brought up and left at the base of the bed, along with two metal cases that looked an awful lot like—

"Can I help you?" a voice called out. They had a proper British upper class Received Pronunciation accent, and it definitely belonged to a woman. "The concierge dropped off my luggage twenty minutes ago."

_Shit._ Magdalene clutched one of the gun cases in hand and waited for the sound of footsteps, or any further noise that'd help her pinpoint the woman's location. It was Victoria, she assumed. With her back to the rest of the room, Magdalene wouldn't know if there was a gun to her back till she turned around and by then it'd probably be too late. "Perhaps I can help _you._ I believe this is my room. I booked the penthouse myself."

"I don't think so, dear. Now if you wouldn't mind putting my luggage down, perhaps we can clear all this up."

Cold steel brushed the back of her head and Magdalene sighed, rolling her eyes at the woman's lack of finesse. If you were going to shoot someone, you didn't put the gun directly against their head. Being within arm's reach posed a lot of problems when you were killing people. For God's sake, surely someone who — she pushed the lock into the open position and let one side of the case fall open — was carrying a disassembled rifle around knew that.

"A fifty calibre?" Magdalene asked. "That's a bit overpowered, don't you think?"

"It depends what you're using it for. Now turn around and hand over the case."

Fine. Perhaps then she could get to finding out why someone was using her face and booking hotel rooms under an alias. Magdalene reached down and closed the case without any further instruction then turned to face this would-be killer.

"Nice mask," Victoria said. "Take it off too."

"Excuse me?" Magdalene looked Victoria up and down in disbelief. No. No way could this be real. It was all just some bonkers dream and she'd wake up any minute now. The woman in front of her was . . . _her_, but not her. That face was the same one she saw in her bathroom mirror every single morning. "I ain't wearing a mask, love."

"Then who are you?"

"You can call me Mags." Victoria Winslow, they'd called her. The name befitted someone with her accent. "If you're gonna shoot me, do it, otherwise put that pistol down and get us both a cuppa."

She had a feeling this was going to be a long day, and the sooner they got to talking, the better. Victoria lowered her gun and holstered it but didn't make any effort to move from where she stood. "Where are you from, Mags?"

"London."

Well that was vague and non-specific. Victoria tilted her head, looking for any sign that this was some hi-tech prank. There should've been a seam or something if it were a mask. Instead she found nothing. That choppy hair was real, those crow's feet were genuine, and the attitude with which she carried herself was certainly more real than anyone could fake.

"Now how about that cuppa?" Magdalene said, helping herself to a seat on one of the couches that faced the widescreen TV. "Two sugars, no milk, thanks."

"Do you have a surname, Mags?" Victoria pressed. She needed details, history. Anything that would help her figure out just what the fuck was going on. After a quick search of the cupboards, she found an electric kettle and a ceramic pot. Only in America was something that utilised electricity considered a 'special request'. "Do you prefer loose or bagged?"

"Shaw, and either is fine. My mum was born in East London. Myself too."

East London. Shaw. Why did that set off so many alarm bells in her mind? Shaw. Mags Shaw. Mags was a nickname, probably short for Margaret or—

Or Magdalene. Magdalene Shaw of East London, mother of Deckard and Owen. A woman with a reputation that even she'd heard of. Magdalene Shaw _nee_ Waugh. Oh Christ, Victoria thought as she filled the kettle with water. It couldn't be, yet she had a feeling it was. Waugh was her _divorced_ mother's maiden name too.

"I think I've worked with your sons, actually," Victoria said, breaking the silence that'd fallen over the penthouse. If she rang her dad and nagged him for her mum's number, what would her mother say? Birth certificates didn't list siblings, after all. "There was a young man: Owen Shaw. Captain in the 21st SAS regiment."

Oh God. Magdalene sank into the couch and prayed it'd swallow her up. Five minutes alone with a woman whose face mirrored her own and already she was up to her neck in trouble. _I'm gonna need something stronger than tea by the time this is over._"No sons," she lied, "just daughters."

"My mistake. Do you like shortbread?"


End file.
